


I’ll find a home in everything (in my hideaway)

by pencilwood



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Between The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, Body Positivity for Sam Gamgee, Bottom Frodo, Consent, Cooking, Depression, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, FTM Frodo Baggins, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hobbits, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Frodo Baggins, POV Multiple, POV Samwise Gamgee, Post-Hobbit, Resolved Sexual Tension, Service Top, Sharing Body Heat, Sickfic, Top Sam, Trans Male Character, Trans Male Frodo Baggins, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:00:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28786098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pencilwood/pseuds/pencilwood
Summary: In the half-year since Bilbo had left, Frodo had come to realize there might be a heavy deal more Tookishness in himself than he thought.It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate comforts! No, he might appreciate them overmuch. He had slept until midday, by the clock ever on the mantelpiece, which he had not moved from the spot Bilbo had set it. But Frodo couldn’t shake that everything in the Shire seemed as if the whey strained through cheesecloth: thin and watery, like the pouring rain outside.(Frodo is depressed; Sam assumes he's sick and gives him company plus some sweet, sweet lovin'.)Updates weekly on Saturday noons.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Comments: 15
Kudos: 64





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I always felt terrible for Frodo after Bilbo left.
> 
> (I love Bilbo, though, and I attribute this more to Tolkien being abysmal at making his characters say proper goodbyes, because I cannot imagine Bilbo would disappear on their SHARED! BIRTHDAY! like that unless we use the "ring made 'em do it" excuse, which I am prepared to do.)
> 
> Anyways: please enjoy!

Mornings in the Shire were often rainy.

This morning was no different; Frodo stood in the doorway of Bag End (his own _smial_ , now that Bilbo had gone away, which he did try very hard to not dwell on) and watched how the water was falling in sheets. At his feet, on either side of the door, small waterfalls directed from the frame drowned the pansies, and the air smelled of drenched soil. It was _especially_ rainy, he amended in his head. And especially dull.

He turned back to look inside, back at the dusty interior. Yes, especially dull. In the half-year since Bilbo had left, Frodo had come to realize there might be a heavy deal more Tookishness in himself than he thought.

It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate comforts! No, he might appreciate them overmuch. He had slept until midday, by the clock ever on the mantelpiece, which he had not moved from the spot Bilbo had set it. But Frodo couldn’t shake that everything in the Shire seemed as if the whey strained through cheesecloth: thin and watery, like the pouring rain outside.

He closed the door.

 _Surely,_ he thought, _there is_ something _that would interest me out there?_

But for now the rain was coming in a torrent and Frodo was quite chilled just from his moment in the doorway. He rubbed his hands together, stared at the floor, then shuffled to make himself luncheon, for it might calm the pit in his stomach.

Shortly: it didn’t. Frodo sat heavily, feet flat on the ground and elbows resting on his knees, and burned his tongue on his first sip of tea, as that was all he had mustered up energy to make. The tea was understeeped—flavorless, like much else—and Frodo took comfort only from the sting of the burn.

The rest of the day he spent under the covers chewing stale bread. To say that it didn’t do a hobbit good to go without eating was an understatement; Frodo knew, in fact, that he ought to have had afternoon tea, and that crust would not suffice for dinner, and that whatever he had left in the cupboard would make for a very sorry supper. But to make something suitable required dressing and walking to the market and partaking in the good-natured haggling of hobbits and much, _much_ conversation and on top of all of that he must cook it, too! Frodo groaned aloud at the thought, then bit his burnt tongue with the effort of not swallowing it when Samwise Gamgee’s voice came from the window:

“Mr. Frodo?”

“Here, yes!” he gasped. Sam stood, only his head visible up over the frame and the open pane, and Frodo then realized both that the rain had stopped and that he’d left his window open for the whole of it. The floor—Eru preserve him! He scrambled up, gathered a few of Bilbo’s older napkins from a drawer, and threw them over the puddle in a rush.

The gardener watched with a funny expression on his face. “Mr. Frodo, is everythin’ all right?”

“All right?” Frodo asked breathlessly. He stood again and was suddenly aware of his state: unwashed hair, mussed underclothes, and a horridly messy hobbit hole. He felt his cheeks heat. Everyone already thought Bilbo next to _unhinged_. Of course he would follow. “Yes,” he managed, “Yes, I’m just fine. Did you need something?”

Sam’s brow only furrowed further. “Well, no. I was just supposin'… your window, and the sound—I thought you might be ill.”

Ill. Ill would explain it.

“I am!” Frodo blurted out. “Nothing dreadful, but I’m feverish. Achy, tired, the lot of it.”

“Terrible, that sounds,” Sam said, and he really looked sympathetic. It was almost enough to make Frodo guilty. “Why don’t I bring you a few meals tomorrow, get your strength up, Mr. Frodo? Making luncheon is no easy feat for a sick hobbit.”

Almost.

Frodo politely refused, Sam politely insisted, and the natural conclusion was reached: Sam would cook his meals through the day’s gardening work so long as he was still paid for the time. Given Frodo’s advantaged position—and the source he once again refused to let his thoughts settle on—it was an easy decision.

He then sat with his crust and quietly, impassively panicked. Frodo, as he was embarrassed to admit, often forgot Sam’s daily presence outside; lately, he had become another background noise in the dull Shire. Now they would need to _converse_. What did he have to have to talk about? He could scarcely remember at least two of the months since Bilbo had left. He—and now he was dwelling—had felt very much too similar to the days after the boat accident, shoved among somewhat-familiar people and yet unbearably alone. Oh, he’d been rich with visitors on both occasions. Apologies and queries about silverware, mostly. Neither were welcome.

The worst—again, dwelling—was how _sure_ the Shirefolk were that Bilbo was dead. That he’d done a final trick and karked it. When Frodo argued, if he argued, they each just fixed him with these sad eyes like he was the most pitiable creature they’d ever seen. _Or they look at you like you’ve lost your mind_ , he thought uncharitably. _Maybe you have._

The months. This was why he refused to dwell. He lost time to sleep or to thinking. He’d spent months thrown into the bones of a two-decades-old wound and the rest crawling out of them. Only this time, he did not have Bilbo’s quiet comforts and wordless full teacups and blank notebooks set at his bed for when talking was too much.

Frodo finished his cold, watery tea, tasted none of it, and cursed again his burnt tongue.

* * *

Samwise Gamgee whistled to himself as he walked the short way to Bag End.

It didn’t matter to him what others said about the Bagginses. Bilbo had taught him wonderous things and told even better stories; and beyond that, he’d never kept the Gaffer or Sam himself waiting for a day’s pay and a bonus, and that was more than Sam guessed _many_ a hobbit could say about their employer! Frodo was just as considerate, kept the pay organized neat in a box so he wouldn’t forget, liked to chat and come out for tea once in a while. Yes, to Sam the Bagginses were fine folk, nevermind the gossip.

The gossip—well. It had ramped up for a good while now, hadn’t it, the more Frodo stayed inside? And the teatimes had all but disappeared. Seemed the only thing Frodo went out for was buying the odd mutton chop or handling inheritances. Sam had to hope that good hot meals would be just the ticket.

It didn’t matter to him, after all, that Mr. Frodo was terribly skinny for a hobbit, especially with his illness and all. He just needed some care. And some potatoes.

Sam knocked at the door, clucking his tongue at the drowned pansies. Poor things. After a good bit of shuffling, Frodo answered and Sam forgot all about the pansies. This time, Frodo was dressed and his hair washed, though the curls lay wet against his forehead and his cheeks were still flushed from the heat of the water. Sam couldn’t decide which view he preferred: the first for the underclothes or this one for… everything else. He looked away, cheeks pink; it wouldn’t do to ogle his employer, would it? Then he’d go catching a fancy and focusing far less on the cabbage patch and the gardenias.

“Good mornin’, Mr. Frodo,” he said to the waterlogged pansies.

“Good morning,” Frodo replied in a friendly enough voice, and the both of them walked into the _smial_ , Frodo moving to help carry Sam’s baskets and Sam waving him off.

“Now, what’s the point of this if you help?”

Frodo, to his credit, looked sheepish as he climbed back into bed, and so Sam didn’t scold him any more besides to make him sit up so he’d be set to eat without choking and catching his death. “Thank you, Sam,” he said softly, and it sounded earnest, which lifted Sam’s spirits right up to floating.

All the fixings went into the cupboards, and Sam smiled at Frodo’s silent astonishment—like he had just realized how much extra pay meant to a gardener! The Bagginses had gotten funny with all the gold. In a nicer way than the Sacksville-Bagginses, that is, with their greed. The Bagginses had just forgotten quite what an apple cost, so to speak.

Frodo stayed quiet and just hummed an acknowledgement when Sam made a comment about the new Brandybuck siblings, so the cooking was done with some whistling instead. Sam didn’t much like talking when he was sick, either. In a few refrains of a drinking song he remembered only the melody to, Sam cooked up a proper hobbitish breakfast for them both: an omelette, biscuits and gravy, a heap of hash with spinach, and a handful of bangers.

Frodo again watched with his big eyes widened even bigger. Why, Sam would wager he hadn’t eaten anything this filling for weeks if he looked at a single plate like that! That wouldn’t do. As Frodo ate, Sam plotted out second breakfast: scones, clotted cream, honey cakes…

And so went much of the day, and in fact the day after that: Sam, cooking between the weeding, and Frodo, sitting silently, speaking only to say _thank you_. It wasn’t until the third that Sam heard a peep behind him as he poured the fat from a pan of the luncheon’s bacon.

“What have you been up to?” Frodo asked quietly, and Sam nearly spilled the grease in his excitement to answer.

“Oh, a wealth of things, Mr. Frodo! Besides the cookin’ and the garden, there’s been plenty of news around. You used to run with Merry Brandybuck and Pippin Took, yeah? The two of them made a mess o’ a cart of eggs yesterday. And I told you about the new Brandybuck girls—Melody and Ophelia. Sweet little things, dark hair like yours. An’—” Sam turned, a boiled egg in hand, and forgot his words.

Mr. Frodo looked just wretched. Not appearance-wise, mind you! Sam really didn’t care a bit that Frodo was so skinny. Sam just happened to be lucky to be so round; hobbit lasses gave him long looks, sure, but he never got an ego about something like that. No, Frodo was—well, Sam thought he was just fetching, with his strong jaw and those long eyelashes. Fetching and mysterious and gentle where Bilbo had been kind but (bless the old hobbit) a bit stuffy.

No, no, and now Sam had forgotten his worry in thinking about Frodo’s loveliness. No, Mr. Frodo looked wretched in the _expression_. He was staring down, it seemed, at a big crease in his blanket with such a defeated posture he looked like a spigot someone had kicked so it stood crooked.

Frodo looked up, then, for Sam’s quietness, and his big round eyes had a deep sadness to them. That would certainly not do.

Sam finished his cooking with a good collection of stories to keep Frodo occupied: the trouble a Proudfoot fauntling had nearly gotten himself into in the Old Forest, how fared business in Bree, that the price of Old Toby was up a farthing—and soon presented a tray of scotch eggs, hearty potato soup, and thick toast for dipping.

Frodo gave him one of his thankful looks and took a big bite of soup-drenched toast. “I’ve missed much news,” he said softly once he’d swallowed.

“Nothing you can’t catch up to, Mr. Frodo!” Sam assured him. “I’ll bring the happenin’s to you. Can’t be going out to hear it all yourself while you’re ill, after all.”

At that, Frodo smiled, and Sam was just happy to see it—didn’t question a thing. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update because why not!

By afternoon tea, Frodo was feeling especially guilty. Sam had come in with mud caking his gloves, and a glance out the window showed Frodo the amount of _work_ he’d done outside—kale and chicory newly planted, parsnips harvested, and the whole garden weeded. And now Sam was slaving over the oven, folding pecans into dough!

 _Samwise,_ Frodo thought, _is a good hobbit._ _Punctual, easygoing, and a good friend on top of it._ Frodo, in contrast… if you listened to the Shirefolk, Frodo was queer in the same too-Tookish way his uncle (cousin, yes, but he was distinctly more uncle-like) was. Where Sam was full-bodied, Frodo was thin like worn cloth; Sam was sensible, Frodo was a daydreamer; Sam did well the daily tasks, Frodo did little but write and sleep.

Oh, but this proved it. Dwelling did nothing but bad, making him feel so sorry for himself. But despite it, nothing else seemed to come to Frodo’s mind. It was all _Bilbo_ and _insecurities_ today, to his luck.

Frodo supposed that there was no better time to dwell than with a good friend nearby.

So he allowed it: he thought about the boating accident and the time afterward which had melted into one very long, very sad day—at first, he had slept barricaded away in the guest room, but soon loneliness had overtaken his wish to cry alone. He had taken to sleeping on the floor of Bilbo’s room. During the day he would lay and listen to Bilbo writing, and during the night he would sleep uneasily, but better than he slept by himself—it did him some comfort to hear breathing. Eventually, Bilbo would (gently) shoo him off the floor and make him wash his bedclothes and bathe and do the other things proper hobbits ought to do, until enough time passed that he could do them again without someone prodding him.

Somehow, Frodo was convinced there would not be any amount of time that would make him feel alright with losing Bilbo, nor any amount of time that would allow him to _pretend_ to be alright long enough to function.

When he surfaced from his thoughts, Sam was smiling proudly at a pan fresh from the oven, wiping flour from his hands. To the side a teapot was heating, a small bowl of tealeaves and spices sat waiting, and a stack of neglected letters lay taking up room (mostly, again, apologies and requests for silverware).

“It was six months exactly, yesterday,” Frodo said quietly, and he saw Sam rapidly _get_ it.

“Oh,” Sam said, eyes wide and stance almost comical, frozen over the cooling crumpets, “oh, Mr. Frodo! Of course you’re sick, with all your stress.”

Well. _Mostly_ get it.

“It’s dreadful business that Mr. Bilbo had to leave,” Sam continued quickly.

“ _Leave_ ,” Frodo repeated. His mood had already lifted a fraction just hearing that word. “You don’t think he’s dead?”

Sam sat a tray of pastries and a teacup neatly in Frodo’s lap, and the guilt heightened just a bit when Frodo noticed the pecans were _candied_. Above him, Sam shook his head, hands on his hips as he considered. “I reckon not. Mr. Bilbo had quite a fantastic adventure for him to stop being strange now, didn’t he? And a good lot of the Shire saw him disappear—last I thought, that wouldn’t kill you.”

Leave it to Sam to keep this conversation pleasant. Frodo chuckled and took a sip of the tea after blowing carefully. The taste was rich and full. “I’m glad to hear it. I’m sure he isn’t, and I was beginning to think no one else in the Shire agreed.” He cradled the cup in his hands, savoring the warmth. “When I said so to Merry and Pippin, even they looked at me like I was mad.”

“I don’t think you’re mad at all, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, and they ate in comfortable silence.

Frodo finished his tea with an unburnt tongue. He gave the tray back to a smiling Sam, pushing his guilt down, and soon Sam was back out in the gardening again, checking all the flowers and tossing pesky caterpillars away who would eat the leaves and petals. Frodo watched through the window, resting his chin on a hand and, admittedly, thinking of how handsome his friend had become.

Frodo wasn’t one to consider those things! His cousins were quick to spy attractive hobbit-maids and gentlehobbits and hobbits in-between (along with a few Men in Bree—Frodo had seen their eyes wander!), but Frodo had always been the shyest of the three. Even now, he found himself blushing at the thought of thinking of _anyone_ in such a way. But Sam was a very handsome hobbit, and surely Frodo couldn’t be blamed for noticing it.

His hands were large and strong, and his body much the same in the hobbitish way: stocky and broad, yet pleasantly soft. Frodo could imagine—though he would not allow himself—those hands bracketing his hips, that body pressing down against him. He closed his eyes and quickly opened them to banish the image that had appeared. It wouldn’t do to think of Sam so basely! He had interests other than sexual in Sam, to be sure, but even that wasn’t a comfort, not when Sam was being so selfless in his care for him. It just felt too crass—and Frodo was suddenly fearful that his affections were spurred on more by his malaise and grief (though he loathed to call it that, when Bilbo _wasn’t_ dead) than by a love for Sam himself.

No, that settled it; he couldn’t indulge this fantasy until he’d gotten himself into sorts to cook for himself again. The sadness and coddling was probably influencing him, and he would not disrespect Sam with misguided lust.

It was just his luck, then, that Sam came in to make dinner with the top half of his overalls down, showing just the thin undershirt dampened with sweat, and the contour of his chest and back torturously visible.

Frodo carefully stared at the bookshelf instead.

***

Fixing someone dinner had never been less of a chore! Sam felt very pleased with himself as he spooned broth over a peppered steak. Something about the meal being for his dear sick Frodo made it quite satisfying indeed to load up plates. And it was even better that Frodo was speaking up now, though Sam suspected what he _needed_ was to be let alone to talk when he felt like it (and so he wouldn’t push it, however much he wanted to hear the hobbit’s voice). Sam was not completely unobservant, nevermind what a good number of Shirehobbits seemed to think—otherwise, how would he know the gossip? He added a pat of butter to the mashed potatoes, stirred the frying aubergine, and plucked an apple from the expansive pantry to hold Frodo over, as the cooking would take just a bit longer than he thought.

Sam rather liked Bag End. He thought this as he cut the apple, breathing in the smell of baking spiced mutton. It was cozy and especially comfortable as Bilbo had the coin and heirlooms to fill a right fancy _smial_ ; Frodo was perhaps not so preoccupied with decorating, but that was just as well since he preferred to keep Bilbo’s style left alone.

Poor Mr. Frodo, speaking of.

Sam knew Mr. Frodo was what he’d call the _thinking_ type. Sam wasn’t unintelligent—he loved poetry, learning about the Elf folk and their strange ways—but he didn’t bother himself worrying about much when it wouldn’t do a thing for him. Frodo couldn’t seem to help it. Sam supposed he was probably thinking very much about where Bilbo was and whether he was warm and whether he planned on returning to Bag End at all. Worse, though, Sam supposed Frodo was thinking very much about the _fact_ that he was thinking! He remembered how the hobbit tended to look around water, and how he’d force a smile when they met eyes, and how Sam had always known the hobbit was boxing his own ears in his head for looking upset enough to draw looks in the first place.

Yes, Samwise was not unobservant. He saw as Frodo quietly watched him lay the apple slices on a plate and the plate on the tray with a cup of water—but when Sam came and leaned down to set it all in his lap, Mr. Frodo’s face went odd, and Sam noticed he was just a bit pinker than before. _Very sick, then,_ Sam fretted. He touched the back of his hand softly to the flat of the hobbit’s forehead and clucked his tongue at the heat he felt. “Mr. Frodo, I’m afraid you might be needin’ to sweat this one out,” he said, and when he looked down—well, Mr. Frodo’s face had gotten plain red!

“How would I do that?” Frodo asked, looking at Sam and not seeming a bit interested in his apple slices anymore.

Sam answered by scooping up a few blankets from the chest by the bed and dropping them down with a _poff_. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Mr. Frodo almost looked disappointed—but the expression went as soon as it came, and Sam tucked three blankets up around Frodo’s waist once the tray was lifted up out of the way. By the end of it he looked nice and toasty bundled in the wool, and Sam smiled to himself at the sight. _That_ was how his Frodo ought to look.

Once the apple was done with and Frodo had eaten dinner (which Sam considered to be a feat, as three proper dinners in a row had clearly already done something for Frodo’s heath), Sam finished his own last bite and looked up to find Frodo dragging his fork through the broth left on his plate.

That thinking again! Bless the boy, Sam had never seen anyone coherent enough to worry on a fever. He went right useless when he was burning up. Gaffer had always told him it did the body bad to use the brain too much when it was trying to heal, taking up energy—so he’d put a stop to it if he had to.

“Mr. Frodo?” he said, and the hobbit nearly tipped the whole tray as he jumped and looked up. His mouth was slightly open with the shock of it.

“Sam?”

The gossip, Sam supposed, occasionally made sense. Frodo could confuse him an awful lot. But he liked him just the same. Sam got up and moved the tray off somewhere it wouldn’t fall before checking Frodo’s temperature again—hot. And the red was back fierce in his cheeks.

“It still hasn’t broken, then?” he thought aloud, and Frodo slightly shook his head against Sam’s hand still touching his forehead. Sam frowned. If he was going to be taking care of Frodo, he’d not do a halfway job of it. “Some fevers,” he said, “are donkey-stubborn. My cousins used to need body heat to get warm enough—embarrassed ‘em, but their mas just wanted them better.”

“Body heat?” Frodo echoed, and Sam nodded.

Within a moment he’d climbed into bed behind Frodo, his legs on either side of the smaller hobbit’s and his chest against his back. He pulled the blankets back up over them both, this time further up to Frodo’s chest, and marveled when he shivered.

“It’s a wonder you’re still feeling cold, Mr. Frodo.”

“It is,” came the reply, and Sam felt the soft pressure of a body leaning into him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy the drawing, because I stayed up to draw it and missed an appointment :') Whoops!!
> 
> Anyway!! Last chapter is coming, and it's a spicy one! Please expect it on the 30th, or on the 29th if I get excited again and just want to post it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words I use in this fic are what *I* feel comfortable with as a transmasc person.
> 
> If you don’t want any spoilers about the smut, then read on—otherwise, please skip to the end notes to see what words I use so you can check if you’ll be comfortable with this fic!

Frodo relaxed against Sam’s chest and felt the heartbeat there. This wasn’t dull, was it?

“Sam,” Frodo started, and he swallowed hard before he continued, speaking lowly like he was telling a secret. _To hell with waiting._ “My fever, I think—I think it’s a particularly stubborn one. Body heat might not be enough.”

Frodo could feel Sam understand—his posture straightened, and the hands that had draped, relaxed, over his thighs suddenly twitched before laying flat over them, palms gently squeezing the insides. His voice was nervous. “Oh. You think, Mr. Frodo?”

He reclined just a little more, pressing his back firmly against Sam’s chest and trying to ignore the small thrill that is the feeling of a heartbeat speeding up. And—harder to ignore—his own starting in his lowers, a steady pulse. “I do, Samwise.”

“Well, I don’t like to deny a gentlehobbit any care,” Sam said with a light stutter. Frodo just smiled and closed his eyes—felt as hands slid up and down his thighs firmly, the way he liked it, and up, under his shirt and over his chest to tease his nipples with pinches and squeezes.

Sam worked slowly over his body, smoothing his hands over all the skin he could reach on Frodo’s top half, including once over his throat to give him a pleasant shiver and once across his belly in such a warm gesture that Frodo found himself blushing for affection instead of lust.

And then one hand slipped down into his trousers—Sam, in his shyness, first ran his hand along Frodo’s opening through the fabric of his underclothes, drawing his fingers over the wetness before bringing them back up and circling round and round a spot that made Frodo’s knee jerk up. He gasped quietly, head falling back against Sam’s shoulder.

Oh, it had been—it had been a _long_ time. Frodo felt his cheeks burning once again. But against the cleft of his ass something of Sam’s was growing firmer, so he could not be too flustered. He pushed his ass against it and rolled his hips in a slow circle, and a smirk came to his face before he could stop it when Sam made a soft groan.

No, this wasn’t dull at all.

The hands came back up, running over Frodo’s stomach, chest, shoulders, down his arms, to his thighs again—Frodo found himself pressing his body up against the touch, breath hitching and leaving his lungs all at once with the anticipation of it.

And then, finally, the fingers at his pantline suddenly pushed under the fabric, and Frodo made a sound as they spread to surround his clit and, with the effect of his arched back and stretched skin, made it feel as though it was standing up especially tall and thick with arousal. The feeling had him shuddering from head to toe—and the soft squeeze Sam gave it forced a shocked whimper.

“Sam,” he said quietly, and the fingers just squeezed again, sending a shake down his legs. He could _feel_ himself becoming soaked. _Filthy_ , he thought with another shiver.

“Yes, Mr. Frodo?” Sam sounded positively cheeky, the bastard. The fingers began stroking up and down, aided in their movement by Frodo’s wetness.

In reply, Frodo just moaned.

Just as fast as Sam could do it, Frodo’s trousers and pants were discarded and the blankets similarly tossed. Sam, body wrapped around him, had one hand with his clit between his fingers and the other sliding into his folds. He hummed in approval at the soft wet sound of it, and Frodo grew redder.

“Inside, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked quietly, fingers still idly stroking his clit.

That well deserved the tone Frodo gave back, though desperation was surely mixed in: “ _Please_.”

Frodo would not admit he watched—and moaned eagerly—as Sam’s hands then worked in tandem, one pumping his clit as the other swirled fingers inside him with purpose. His hips bucked and twitched on their own, though he tried to press and rock against the hardness in Sam’s trousers often. He gripped Sam’s thigh to steady himself; the swirling had progressed to a thrusting and curling of three fingers—faster—the pumping with a tighter hold—

Frodo grew lightheaded, back arching further with fire up his spine. Close—he was close!

Sam’s fingers seemed to spread him inside, and the sounds were enough to make Frodo red from neck to the tips of his ears, which Sam was now covering in soft nips. With another squeeze, suddenly Frodo felt it, that point of no return—he moaned Sam’s name like a sob and his hips began shaking and squirming as it hit, then they rose from the bed with that same animation. Sam said a curse, though with a halfway-smug tone to his voice, and his fingers only sped up, spreading Frodo open as they thrust and made his toes curl with another rush.

That rush seemed to travel down his legs to his toes and back up again, taking all his energy with it. Frodo slumped, panting, back against Sam’s chest, and shuddered once again as the gardener slipped out his fingers. He felt quite empty now, and let out a soft whine for the fact.

“I have somethin’ else for that spot, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, voice ragged, “if you’ll take it.”

Frodo could only nod.

* * *

Sam tried very hard not to shake as he lifted Frodo up and turned him around in his lap. Not for his weight—Frodo was light, and Sam had perhaps lifted bags of fertilizer heavier—but for Sam’s anxious energy making his mind race. He was, again, not the _thinking_ and _fretting_ type like Mr. Frodo, but apparently he was neither as observant as he thought!

Frodo had—all this time? He’d wanted—? Was it just the fever? Only this, or…?

He had begun that sort of worrying until Frodo wrapped his arms around Sam’s neck and nuzzled decisively into his neck in a way that Sam might describe as, if he were dreaming, _romantic_.

Well.

Sam cupped one hand around the back of Frodo’s head and used the other to line himself up.

“T—tell me if something hurts,” he bit out, and then Sam was slowly pressing himself inside, hips struggling to stay still as he slid into tight, wet heat. Frodo just made a soft sound into his ear, and Sam nearly lost himself right there.

It didn’t help that Frodo so quickly decided to rock his hips forward and back, grinding down onto Sam’s dick like he couldn’t bear waiting for him to move. In answer, he gripped Frodo’s thigh with his free hand and began a rhythm that made his spine tingle—and, he hoped, Frodo’s.

“Sam, wait,” Frodo gasped, presumably wishing to talk (Sam must have _some_ confidence left in his observance), and Sam had half a mind to curse Eru for ever conceiving of _thinking_ in the first place.

He stilled, stroking his fingers through Frodo’s curls like he’d imagined an embarrassing number of times as the hobbit pulled his head back just enough to meet his eyes. “Mr. Frodo?”

Frodo colored. “Just the name, please.”

“Frodo, then,” Sam acquiesced, feeling a blush himself. For more than the name—he was suddenly very aware of their position and that, eventually, they would have to part and look each other in the eye again.

“I—well, this isn’t really about the...” Frodo swallowed and shifted as one would shift in their seat, and both of them went redder and suppressed noises at the jolt of feeling it gave. He kept still after that, speaking more quickly: “I’m trying to say, this isn’t mindless…”

Despite his state, Sam couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t know if you’ve ever done a _mindless_ thing in your life, Mr. Frodo.” His smile turned sheepish—this would be a hard habit to break. “Frodo. But I’m glad to hear it. If you weren’t sick, well, I’d be askin’ to kiss you right about now.”

Again, they both reddened—this time as Frodo’s walls tightened around Sam like he’d said something dirty. “Th—that’s lovely to hear, Samwise,” Frodo managed, looking somewhat mortified, and Sam held in his laugh as well as his moan so as not to make him want to run off.

As if he’d complain that Frodo liked the idea so much?

A grin came to his face instead, and he wrapped his arms around Frodo’s torso to hold him firmly. The moment Frodo quietly told him to move—voice edging on desperate, which Sam tried very hard to memorize the sound of—he began his rhythm again. The moment he sank deeper into the heat, a groan escaped his mouth, and Frodo’s legs on either side of him twitched hard.

Sam was certain he’d never tire of Frodo’s reactions, and if he’d not been so pent-up, perhaps he’d take the time to explore them, but for now—for now, he just focused on burying himself deep inside over and over, grinding against Frodo’s pelvis to press upon his clit and make him finish a second time, because Samwise wanted to be nothing if not a generous lover.

Of course, that was easier said than done with a hobbit like Frodo in one’s lap; Frodo’s body seemed intent to send him finishing before he ought to. Sam cursed with every twitch Frodo made, and many were squirms and bucks brought by his own movement. He slowed himself, holding Frodo higher and sliding himself out like a sword being unsheathed, then began to push in and pull out from base to tip and back, delighting in Frodo’s soft, approving moan.

He steadily brought Frodo back down as he moved, by design then pushing deeper and harder into the hobbit’s entrance until the need became unbearable; he sank himself deep inside, filling Frodo and shuddering. Only a small part of his mind focused on poor Frodo’s eagerness kept him moving his hips in staccato—but so fast it left him dizzy, Sam felt vise-like suction and went lightheaded the same moment he realized Frodo was shaking all over with his second peak. He mustered the last of his energy and gripped the back of Frodo’s shirt in one hand, pulling him back and taking a long look over him—his glassy, unfocused eyes, his red face, his heaving chest, where they met, wet and pink—before kissing him hard as the near-unbearably good squeezing pressure around him continued. _To hell with it,_ Sam thought too. If he got sick, he got sick.

“ _Well_ worth it,” Sam sighed as he lay back. 

Atop him, panting again and worn of all his energy, Frodo listened to his heartbeat and focused on catching his breath. “One small thing—the sickness isn’t exactly…” He paused, either to do some more dreaded _thinking_ or to take a gulp of air. “Physical.”

“You can just say what you mean, Frodo,” he said happily, eyes closed and heart fit to burst as he held the hobbit on his chest. “Lovesick, sounds like.”

There was a silence as Frodo adjusted where he lay, finding the right spot and slotting neatly against Sam’s body like he was meant to fit there. Sam felt the hobbit smile against his skin.

“Yes, dear Sam. Lovesick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes for readers concerned about dysphoria triggers: 
> 
> I use "cl*t," "folds," "opening," and “entrance,” and I do talk a good amount about Frodo being wet (because I think it's hot). Per the tags, there is penetration; Sam also cums inside Frodo. Each escalation (and all penetration) is only done after clear confirmation from Frodo that he's comfortable with it. Also, it isn't discussed that Frodo's trans because Sam is already aware--so please don't worry about Sam possibly reacting weirdly. :)
> 
> Also just in case: I don't condone being irresponsible about actual sicknesses, especially right now! Please be safe. 
> 
> **As always, comments feed me and keep me excited to write, so feel free to leave a message if you enjoyed!**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I've been OBSESSING over LOTR lately, so I'm getting out some of that energy through this fic. (Title, by the way, is from Jacob Collier's "Hideaway.")


End file.
